270
Down, down, down
The white armies fall
Moving their ordered snows
Toward the jaws of hell.
Suppose the dead could crown their wit
With some intemperate exercise,
Spring wine from their ivory
Or roses from their eyes?
George Anthony
DECEMBER . EVENING
A cold dusk. Evening closes in a crush
Of sadness threatening snow. The public park
Turns secret in slack wings among the dark
Witchcrafts of bare trees. Precocia! gusts
Quicken the nerves, while in remembered rush
Of swans lovers lie still. One brittle spark
Of leaf afire like a summer heart
Dies on black water to a graveyard pulse.
Tonight a cold spade leans against the world
Waiting the service bell. The swarming sky
Will tread our sleep while the young dead unearth
Their careless hands like April ferns unfurled
Too soon. Tomorrow propitious snow will lie
A clean white straw for another manger birth.
